


Football drabbles

by agamous (apetala)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: A Collection of Drabbles, M/M, domestic AU, tw infidelity, tw noncon, where poly dumdums raise their adopted daughter, young twink cristiano AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:59:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apetala/pseuds/agamous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles centering around Cristiano.</p><p>Chapter five: Sergio tries his hand at cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cris/Zidane/Sergio

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where Cris, Sergio and Zidane are in a poly relationship, living together and raising a daughter. General domestic shenanigans.

Sergio was NOT crying.

 

It was hay fever, definitely. Spring was here, with its pollen and dust and bullshit and of course he couldn’t help it if he sniffled now and then.

 

The fact that he had been banished to the garden shed for a week didn’t help either.

 

And if he was still a little bit upset about his hair, well, that was on him.

 

Cristiano had been apologetic about it. He had even deigned to blow Sergio a kiss, from the other side of the window. Their daughter waved sadly at him, big sad eyes, and pointing to the sign she had scotch taped to the window.

 

“Papa says you’re not allowed in until Sunday. He says sorry.”

 

Sergio could only sit dejectedly on the front step for so long before he gave up and picked up the duffle bag full of clothes and a toothbrush, to go into the backyard to the shed, where Cristiano had already set up a futon and a chair for him.

 

It wasn’t Sergio’s fault he caught lice. And while it wasn’t Isabelle’s friends fault either, for coming over on a sleepover and borrowing Sergio’s pillow for the night, Sergio did feel the blame did rest a little more on other shoulders.

 

When Isabelle had come back with the news that her friend had to leave school because of cooties, Sergio’s hair prickled all over him. Zizou, to his credit, had gone to CVS after work and picked up lice treatment immediately, and had seated Sergio and patiently worked over his hair with the smelly shampoo and a fine tooth comb. Zizou was the only one who Cristiano let near Sergio, him and Isabelle hiding in the master bedroom in the cootie free zone.

 

But even after bleaching and cleaning every surface and cloth item in the house, Cristiano had insisted, on pain of death and no sex for the rest of their lives, that Sergio needed to cut his hair. It was the only way they could be sure.

 

It was traumatizing enough to see his beautiful long hair lay on the ground after he had reluctantly gone into the barber shop. But now he wasn’t even allowed in the house for a week because Cristiano was a paranoid asshole sometimes, and Sergio felt like he was in a literal doghouse in a shed that was sweltering in the day and cold as fuck in the night.

 

But most of all, Sergio missed his baby girl. He missed singing her to sleep at night, and hearing her laugh. He missed playing a million renditions of Frozen songs on his guitar and he missed reading her stories because Isabelle loved the way he did voices the best.

 

He missed giving her a kiss in the mornings when she was on her way out to school. Cristiano might have been the one doing her (intricate) braids in the morning, cooking her a nutritious breakfast, (Zizou had put his foot down on morning protein shakes for Isabelle) and packing her lunch. Zidane was the one she picked up her signed permission slips and school forms from. But Sergio was the only dad she still allowed a kiss from in the mornings. Isabelle argued that since she was a big girl now, going to first grade and everything, she didn’t want to go to school with all her dads cooties on her face. Zidane had accepted this calmly, but had quietly insisted for a hug. Cristiano had pouted but made sure to make up the deficit in the afternoons anyways.

 

But when Sergio had received the news, his heart had nearly broken. His little girl, who used to be a small little infant with a kitten’s cry and big, big eyes. She was growing up so fast. And he was so proud of her! All the time! But he was so afraid that he wasn’t enough for her, and that before he was ready she was going to be all grown up.

 

Isabelle had watched Sergio tear up, and then sighed. “Dada, don’t be sad. You can kiss me in the mornings. ONLY ONE THOUGH, OKAY?”

 

And Sergio felt the sunlight beam back in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sergio HATED mosquitoes. He HATED them. During his time working with the US department of Wildlife, clearing brush and maintaining trails, his coworkers had joked that Sergio was a mosquito magnet. If he was in their group for the day, everyone knew they’d be untroubled by any bugs, while Sergio would be itchy with new bites on every inch of exposed skin.

 

Cristiano was going to let him die of malaria, and this was all his fault, and Sergio was so mad, scratching all the strange places he was getting bit, like the bottom of his feet. Cristiano wasn’t getting head from him for at least a month for this.

 

Sergio was miserably putting calamine lotion on his toes, still lying on the bed, when he heard a shy knock on his shed door.

 

He knew only one girl in the world who knocked like that, like when she was sick with flu and had walked into Sergio’s bedside to throw up over the blankets.

 

He rushed to the door and opened it. Isabelle waited outside, with a plate of fruit tarts.

 

“Dada!” She chirped happily. “Papa made these for you. He said he misses you.”

 

“Sweetie,” Sergio said, tearing up. “You’re my favorite little girl in the world.”

 

Isabelle giggled, and while Sergio was stuffing his face with fruit tarts (Cristiano almost never made them—he complained that they took too long and he usually only bothered when he was hosting a dinner.) she made her way over to the bed and sat on it.

 

“Dada,” she asked him. “Why can’t you come back in the house?”

 

Sergio made a face and sat next to her, plate halfway empty. “Well, it’s because your papa is being really mean to me right now.”  
  
“He and Dad misses you.” Isabelle put her head on his arm. “Dinner’s so much quieter with you. And I can’t sleep good at night.”

 

Sergio’s heart, weakened by the fruit tarts, hardened once more imagining Isabelle tossing and turning in the night.

 

“Well sweetheart. How about this?” He said, turning to her and offering a bite of fruit tart. “I’ll give you a call on Papa’s phone when it’s your bedtime. Then I can sing to you by the phone. What do you think?”

 

Isabelle munched happily on the fruit tart, and smiled so brilliantly that Sergio’s heart squeezed. “I can’t wait!”

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, Zidane sidled up silently behind Cristiano, watching Isabelle from the doorway. She was singing along to Sergio’s voice on Cris’s phone, singing a song about a snowman in summertime.

 

“Are you all right?” Zizou asked him, a soft murmur in his ear.

 

“No.” Growled Cristiano. “It’s fifteen minutes past Beli’s bedtime and Sergio won’t stop singing that goddamn Disney song. When she outgrows Frozen, we’re throwing away that DVD.”

 

Zizou hummed. “You’re not upset about the song.”

 

Cristiano sighed. “No.”

 

Zidane watched the scene in silence for a while. Isabelle now chattering in Spanish to Sergio about how she made play-doh in class. “She loves you too, you know. She just misses Sese right now.”

 

“It’s not always fun being the responsible parent.” Cristiano responded waspishly. “I miss Sese too but that doesn’t mean I’m going to expose her to bugs, if I can help it.”

 

Zidane held Cristiano closer now, steady strong arms locking him close. “You did kick him out to live in the shed for a week. It’s a little extreme.”

 

“Lice, Zizou. Lice.”

 

“I’m sure she and him will understand. In time. A long time, perhaps.”

 

“If you miss him so much you can live out in the shed with him.” Cristiano sniped back.

 

 


	2. Cris/Zidane/Sergio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wild west AU, with the poly trio and their daughter! Inspired a little by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 
> 
> Basically Sergio gets to be the responsible parent for a year and he hates it.

Cristiano kissed Sergio, a desperate press of the mouth against his, tasting of dust and blood. It tasted like a last kiss.

 

“Go.” Cristiano begged.

 

Sergio shook his head mutely.

 

“You have to go.” Cristiano lifted the bundle in his arms and with care, placed it gently in Sergio’s hands, Cristiano molding Sergio’s hands to hold it better.

 

“This baby deserves to live. She deserves a good life. She deserves at least a father.”

 

Was Cristiano crying? Sergio couldn’t tell. The sun was so bright that it washed out everything into a pale liminal space. The eternal cracked surface of the desert, the moment eternal. Two men on the ground, tattered and bloodied. One with blood steadily seeping from the bandage around his calf. The other, dark eyed and desperate.

 

Begging the other man to flee, and leave them to die.

 

Sergio shook his head for the second time, but this time he had to speak.

 

“I can’t leave you, Cristiano. I can’t. If we die, we all die together.”

 

“Don’t be a fool.” Cristiano bit out. The sound of horse hooves in the distance could be heard. “They’re already coming here. If they find you they’ll hang you for certain. You’re not involved with us.”

 

“Cris—“ Sergio opened his mouth to argue. It was madness. He couldn’t leave them. He couldn’t leave Cristiano. He couldn’t leave Zidane.

 

Zidane was cleaning his rifle steadily, despite the pain in his leg. Only the angle of his gritted jaw and the cold sweat dusting his face and collarbones revealed any hint of distress.

 

“Sergio.” Zidane said.

 

Sergio turned to look at him. Silently begging. Please don’t send him away. Please don’t make him live without them.

 

“I must beg of your kindness. I must ask you a favor, and I apologize.” Zidane said.

 

The air was silent, except for the whine of the flies, gathering to the lonely little shack in the desert. Even the baby was silent, sleeping soundly in Sergio’s arms.

 

“Please. Live.”

 

The sound of whooping could now be heard. The men that were coming to their doorstep sounded excited. As if this was nothing more than a coyote hunt, a fun afternoon outing.

 

“I know it is selfish of us to ask you this.”

 

Zidane loaded his rifle with a bullet, the metallic sound echoing in the air. “But we always knew this was coming. We are bandits, and have always been. Cris and I, our families, the whole state, knew this was coming. We accepted this long ago.”

 

“But you. You are a good man. You are a man who loves to play his music. You are a man who loves the daughter we found. You are a man who loves to sing, even if he has the worst voice in all of the West.”

 

Sergio saw, rather than felt, the tears dropping on the clean rough cotton of the baby’s swaddling.

 

“Please. Find the money we deposited at Vallejo. Buy that orange orchard you always talked about having. Raise your one hundred horses, and then train them to be champion racehorses. Raise our daughter to be a good girl. And forget us.”

 

Sergio wanted to say something. Anything. That they could still do this together. They could flee now, and it could be Zidane, standing on the porch of their home, taking his hat off before he entered the house, finished with a long day’s work and ready to see his family. It could be Cristiano, sleeping under the shade of the orange orchard, dreaming sweet-scented dreams until Sergio found him slacking off building the irrigation. It could have been them all, taking a trip to Santa Monica, eating ice cream and swimming in the cool of the vast Pacific Ocean lapping at the shore.

 

But the words stuck in his throat. Because he knew.

 

He knew Zidane was too slow now to make it to the train station five miles away on foot. That the group of armed men coming for them was nearly twenty five strong, and led by the sheriff. That Cristiano would never leave Zidane’s side. That he couldn’t.

 

Sergio couldn’t either.

 

But the baby in his arms needed him to.

 

Sergio knew. That if he waited much longer, all three of them would die together.

 

Without another word, Sergio turned, and ran down the back way. Through the hip high brush, then through the jagged shadows cast by the scrub oaks. The path followed along the small creek that ran with the property. The only sound he could hear was his breathing, and his steps.

 

If he and the baby survived, Zidane and Cristiano’s deaths could mean something.

 

He tried to run as fast as he could, ignoring the stitches in his side and the unforgiving sun above him.

 

He didn’t want to hear the gunshots.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio made it on the 5:20 train to Moreno barely in the nick of time. He knew better than to go directly to the station, where other townspeople were. He had to run to a point just out of town, and flag down the train. The conductor didn’t seem to want to stop for a lone man, streaming with sweat and dust. But when the conductor saw the baby in his arms, now starting to bawl from hunger and the heat, he flagged the engine room to stop.

 

Sergio couldn’t help shaking as he walked down the aisle. People looked at him askance, the wild eyed man with the crying baby. He found an empty seat, and sat down gingerly.

 

Sergio didn’t have anything on him except a few coins that would take him to Vallejo where their money was deposited. He didn’t even have milk for the baby.

 

Sergio didn’t mean to start crying. A huff of laughter, that he had been so distracted that he had somehow forgotten to take anything with him, not even a bottle. A huff that turned into a full throated laughter, that turned into a man, red with dust, fully crying, while other passengers turned to look at him.

 

The baby in his arms hushed, watching him. And Sergio, lifting her up, began to sob into her swaddling, hiding his tears into the cotton.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Isabella was a good girl.

 

She was quiet for the most part, playing well by herself and her stuffed animals. She was always following after Sergio around the house, watching him with big brown eyes while he made dinner for the two of them. She ate without complaining whatever he put in front of her, even though his cooking had been sadly pathetic at the beginning. It was too much to ask the hired woman to watch Isabella all day, clean the home, and then prepare dinner when she had her own brood of four to get back to at the end of the day. So Sergio did it, and now he wasn’t a bad hand at baking beans and stewing pork. He was trying to learn how to cook more vegetables, as he was worried Isabella wasn’t eating proper food, but it tended to go to mush in the pan when he tried.

 

Some days when Sergio wasn’t dog tired from trying to manage the horses, the farm hands, and the household, Sergio would take Isabella out on Starry, an patient old mare, and they would ride together around their farm. Isabella was so smart, she could count up to twelve and she wasn’t even two yet. She would point out the number of oranges she could see growing on the trees, and count what she saw up to twelve, and then start over again. Sergio would try repeating “thirteen” to her over and over, and she’d nod her head wisely, and when she counted again she would stop at twelve again.

 

At night he would play her a song on his guitar, and she’d snuggle close to him. She loved listening to his complex flamenco compositions as much as she liked listening to nursery songs.

 

Sometimes Sergio was so happy that he had Isabella in his life that he could burst.

 

 

Sometimes though, Sergio wished he had stayed and died with them.

 

Those some times were most often nights. It was hard falling asleep somehow. In those brief two and a half years, Sergio had gotten used to sleeping with two bodies in the bed, two pairs of arms entwined around him, two other hearts beating sleepily next to his.

 

It was hard waking up, in the middle of the night, waking up from dreams that were always, invariably, about Cristiano and Zidane. He hated waking up from dreams where he saw their faces, twisted with pain and fury, lying in the baking sun while callous men kicked dirt into their unseeing eyes. He hated dreaming of them being hung up on the oak tree that shaded their house, left there as a warning, to rot.

 

But Sergio hated it more when he dreamt of them being alive, memories that would not stop haunting him.

 

Like the first night they had met.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio had been playing his guitar for half the night now. At first it had been a slow night. It was a Wednesday night in a small mining town, where the gold had dried up, and the only thing left to mine was substandard quartz minerals.

 

But at midnight sharp, two strangers had walked in, and the few denizens of the bar had perked up to stare at them.

 

The taller of the men was clearly not a farmer, nor a miner, nor a cattleman. His stride, his cold stare, the way he sized up the room in an instant before he walked in: screamed a man who didn’t do his work during the day.

 

The other man looked like he didn’t work during the day as well, but in an entirely different profession. Eyes dark as a doves, but a mouth that was familiar with sin. Bottom lip so full and pouty as if he was thinking about sweet night nothings, and a haunch and lithe walk that made men’s eyes burn.

 

Sergio’s eyes lit up at the sight. Something new, in this town, just when he was about to give up on it.

 

As the two strangers ordered a drink, Sergio stopped his museless strumming, and began to pick out the notes to a flamenco song he learned back in Spain. One about love, and fire.

 

The tall man didn’t give any sign of having noticed the song, but the dark eyed man looked up, to meet Sergio’s eyes. Sergio tried his most dashing smile back, and began singing out loud.

 

By the end of it, the dark eyed man was definitely smiling, while the other one looked coolly at the scene, sipping his drink.

 

In the lull of silence, the taller man spoke, and the whole bar heard him.

 

“That was the worst singing I’ve heard in all of San Gabriel Valley.”

 

But the dark eyed man laughed.

 

“I liked it.”

 

And Sergio’s heart lifted at those words.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio could have moved on. Should have. He had a young daughter, after all, and a fully running farm to boot. He needed someone beside him, to help run everything. To watch the home, raise Isabella, feed them and the workers that would soon be coming in for the harvest, manage expenses.

 

And Sergio wouldn’t admit it, but he was lonely at night. He ached for another body next to his, warm and comforting. It had been nearly a year and a half, after all.

 

He could have made it simple, and married the widow he hired to take care of the house. He wouldn’t have to pay salary then, and Isabella would have four other siblings to play with. He’d be doing well by her, and she was a smart woman to boot.

 

He could have made it complicated. He could find a discreet man, a foreman to manage the farm. Build additions to the house to house him. Good men were hard to find after all to manage orange orchards. No one would think anything of it.

 

Instead Sergio pushed it away as best as he could. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he left Isabella with the widow overnight, and rode out into Alto Verde. Sometimes he wanted the softness of a woman, rosebud soft in the pale places, hot and wet in the dark places on his tongue. Other times he got on his belly over the bed’s edge, while a heavy body pressed him against the sheets, and a deep voice groaned in his ear as he fucked into Sergio.

 

Sometimes he closed his eyes and ears, and pretended it was a man with a piercing stare who took him, a man with the sharpest aim in the state. Zidane who filled his ass to the brim, balancing Sergio on his lap with his wrists tied behind him, and refusing to let him come for hours.

 

Sometimes when he was the one fucking into a pliant body, he could pretend it was Cristiano under him, his full mouth falling open just so, as Sergio ground into him, reaching the spot inside Cris that made him mewl with every thrust, made his thighs quiver with every thrust, Cris begging Sergio to come inside him.

 

It didn’t matter though. Sooner or later, Sergio couldn’t keep the illusion up anymore, and he would come back to himself, in a stranger’s bed, seed cooling on the sheets, his heart still tepid and empty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Papa, who’s that?”

 

Sergio had to stay home that day—the door latch refused to lock for some reason, and he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Isabella and the widow in an unlocked house all day.

 

Which apparently was a good decision, as Sergio grimly looked up to see a lonely figure walking down the pathway in the distance. They didn’t really have trouble in this settled part of the valley, but it was better safe than sorry.

 

“It’s okay, baby. Go inside with Maria. Go on, now.”

 

Sergio picked up his shotgun on the way out, and rested it against the porch. He waited to see who it was exactly that was coming down the way, and what he wanted.

 

Sergio began to sweat in the still warm air outside the porch. Waiting. The figure was slowly growing clearer.

 

There was something familiar about that walk.

 

There was something familiar about the man’s posture, the way he held his shoulders and head ramrod straight.

 

There was definitely something familiar about those thighs.

 

Without even thinking, Sergio found himself on his feet, running, running as hard as possible, like the day he had left Cris and Zidane back at the shack.

 

Cristiano looked more tired than Sergio remembered. His hair, usually so lovingly brilliantined and cut exactly, was now a mess of dark curls, free in the wind. His clothes weatherworn and dusty.

 

His lips were rough and bitten against Sergio’s, but the sound he made, halfway between surprise and a sob, was utterly Cris.

 

It was Cristiano in his arms, Cristiano’s heart against his, beating solidly, warm, and still alive.

 

Sergio held him flush against him, desperately, only the sound of rushing blood in his ears. But after a minute, he was aware of the sound of his crying, and Cristiano murmuring comforting words in his ears.

 

“Where’s Zidane?” Sergio asked roughly, afraid of the answer.

 

“He’s back at the entranceway, waiting for us.” Cris said. “His leg started bothering him a lot, so I said I would come back for him.”

 

“We will.” Sergio correctly absently, still hugging Cris close. Then he added.

 

“Why? Why did you make me wait so long? I thought you were dead for so long. Why didn’t you come for me?”

 

“Idiot.” Cris huffed, dropping his head against Sergio’s shoulder. “We didn’t know where you went to. The banker in Vallejo said you hadn’t been back since that one day. We’ve been searching for you this whole time, after we cleaned up that mess back at the shack. We buried that corrupt sheriff and his men. They won’t come after us anymore now.”

 

“That’s good. That’s good. I’m glad.” Sergio sighed.

 

“Papa?” A little voice rose from behind them.

 

Cristiano detangled himself first from Sergio, to look at Isabella, who was standing on the road, one arm holding onto her beloved stuffed rabbit, and the other holding onto the rifle Sergio had left on the porch, glaring at Cristiano. “Is the bad man hurting you?”

 

“No, baby, no.” Sergio nearly laughed as he walked over, to pluck the rifle safely out of Isabella’s hands. “This isn’t a bad man. This is your other father, Isabella.”

 

“Isabella?” Cristiano said, the expression of a thunderstruck man as he watched Sergio pick up Isabella.

 

“For the prettiest name I could think of.” Sergio cuddled his daughter close.

 

“Should have picked Cristiana then.” But he stretched out his hands, and Sergio, walking closer, deposited their daughter back into Cris’s arms.


	3. Cris/Zidane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for noncon/dubcon
> 
> Young Cristiano catches the eye of his boyfriend's best friend.

Cristiano refused to meet Zidane’s eyes.

 

It was an utterly dull party, with all the usual people, making the usual remarks, swallowing the same routine of tiny precious appetizers and flashy expensive drinks, with the same cast of characters: the hungry social climbers, the bored yet polite politicians, the sharks of society circling for the scent of any blood in the water.

 

And there was also the hero. Luis Figo had walked into the room, and everyone turned to look at him. Powerful athlete in his prime, a national star.

 

And by his side, was the femme fatale.

 

No one was sure if he was lamb or whore. Cristiano, with the long, long eyelashes, and the sweet face, with shy eyes becoming of his young age. A boy still, really, just on the cusp of manhood. He fairly clung to Luis in this room full of strangers, who he didn’t really know.

 

But when he turned to see Zidane looking at him, intently, with not a scrap of civility to hide the fire in Zidane’s eyes, Cristiano’s face stilled for a second, then kindled in barely concealed anger.

 

So the little boy from Portugal hadn’t forgotten him after all.

 

Zidane took a sip of his drink and laughed to himself.

 

Zidane hadn’t forgotten the way Cristiano tasted on his tongue, the petal softness of his tender skin, the way the boy arched his body as he surrendered his virginity to him, that one sweet afternoon.

 

The way he found Cristiano waiting in Luis’s apartment, that day, and the sound of the boy’s silk house robe tearing as Zidane rent Cristiano’s clothes free. The way the boy cried and begged Zidane to stop, and yet how achingly sweet his cries were as Zidane bit and kissed his rosebud tight nipples. It was beyond Zidane how Luis had the superhuman control to wait to deflower Cristiano, but he considered it sheer stupidity. How could anyone resist this boy, how easily he moaned under a man’s attention, how easily he dropped tears as a man thrust into his virgin hole for the first time, how desperate he was to be kissed by a man, surrendering to each and every one?

 

Zidane was only a character too, after all. The villain with the heart of night, ravishing the hero’s prize and stealing it away in the night.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stop!” Cristiano moaned as Zidane dropped bites on the boy’s neck in the bathroom.

 

Zidane didn’t bother answering. He didn’t have to.

 

Cristiano might have struggled against him at first, when he had followed him into the deserted bathroom. Cristiano might have tried to shout until Zidane clapped his hand over his mouth, and unceremoniously bent him over the sink, undoing the boy’s belt and yanking down his trousers and underwear in one smooth movement.

 

And now he was smoothly thrusting inside Cristiano, who had long since stopped trying to fight him off, and was now trying to bite back his cries, high and sharp, with every jab of Zidane’s cock inside the boy’s ass.

 

Fucking the dark eyed twink like an animal was clearly doing it for Cristiano, Zidane’s cock just hitting the spot until Cristiano was gasping for air, the sound of the tip of his shoes just brushing the floor, making desperate movements to gain traction, but Zidane keeping the boy just off balance enough to make sure that Cristiano never found it, keeping his body balanced so that Zidane controlled the encounter completely, plowing the boy at his own mercy.

 

And Cristiano was looser, more open than the first time now. His body had swallowed Zidane’s cock so quickly, as if desperate to be fucked, as if he wanted it, ever since he had seen Zidane at the party again.

 

Would Luis fuck him after this party? Would Luis tenderly, lovingly undress the boy, shy as a lamb on the outside but a ravening whore inside, kiss every inch of him, until he finally, gently, sink his cock inside Cristiano, face to face, with soft kisses of apology? Whisper words of endearments, words of praise, perhaps even words of love, as they made love, the kind of sex you were supposed to have with a tender young thing with innocent dark eyes.

 

Zidane suddenly withdrew, making the boy underneath him yelp at the loss. In a smooth, powerful movement, Zidane lifted Cristiano on the sink, balancing a flushed, whining boy face to face with him, and then spreading those long legs wide with his hands.

 

“What are you—“ Cristiano breathed, a trace of irritation on his face.

 

Without a word, Zidane drove his cock mercilessly down to the root inside Cristiano, piercing him in one, long slide in that hot, wet clench.

 

Cristiano _wailed_.

 

And kept wailing, with every ruthless taking, unable to bite back or control himself.

 

And then he was silent, Zidane crushing his mouth against his, with such force that it was sure to bruise and split those plush pouty lips, those lips that said hello to Zidane with such a shy accent that Zidane was lost from those first words, that Zidane wanted to take him right there, in the locker room, empty of team members from both teams that day, it would have been so easy, but Zidane waited and it was better that way because now he knew Cristiano, Cristiano the soft hearted, Cristiano the affectionate, who curled up in warm blankets and loved to be held tenderly, Cristiano the angry who didn’t hesitate to fight back and lost his temper so easily, so deliciously, Cristiano the utterly lost who surrendered so beautifully underneath Zidane, as if he was made for it.

 

 

Zidane came, in a pulse so strong he almost lost hold of Cristiano, but he kept fucking the boy, losing all control of rhythm or pacing, lost in the instinct to keep thrusting as hard and as fast as he could, to claim this boy as his completely.

 

He heard Cristiano wail one last time, and begin to clench around him, the sweet tightness of his body, throbbing around his cock in a hold that was almost too much to bear.

 

More out of instinct than thought, Zidane slotted his mouth over Cristiano’s again, only this time more to soothe, more to quiet, as Cristiano desperately grabbed at Zidane’s arms, trying to anchor himself, trying to escape as well as trying to force more of Zidane’s cock inside of him.

 

And soon Cristiano was all shivers, with wet eyes, and Zidane could only shush Cristiano, petting his hair, a slow, careful movement, as the boy burst into tears. He buried his face in Zidane’s rough shoulder, Zidane’s cock still inside of him.

 

“I hate you. I hate you.” Cristiano whispered, so low only Zidane could have heard.

 

Zidane did not answer. He dropped a kiss on Cristiano’s head, so soft only the boy’s hair was touched.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Did you have a good time at the party?” Luis asked. He was happy, lit up from inside. He had a good time, talking to friends and coworkers. He loved people, and the world loved him.

 

“Mm.” Zidane hummed.


	4. Cris/Zidane, Cris/Luis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuation from the same AU as the previous chapter, from Cristiano's perspective.
> 
> TW for noncon

Luis had pulled him into a darkened room, one of the many endless rooms in the mansion party they had been invited to. It had seemed like a boring sort of affair at first, a forgettable night of languid celebration with too much booze, for some sort of occasion, the many many occasions that the super rich thought of to break up their monotonous lives.

 

They weren’t like Luis. Luis who smiled at him now with fire in his eyes.

 

Cristiano smiled back at him. The man he loved, his very first love. Luis, who was always so kind to him, so loving, so tender. Who showered him with affection, cuddled him for hours, made delicious meals for him with his carefully selected set of specialty knives and pans, in the kitchen Cristiano loved to sit within, feeling warm and contented as a cat. To watch Luis smile up at him as he artfully sliced tuna belly and unagi, modeled it with borage petals and careful garnish, to feed Cristiano by hand, who leaned in to take the mouthful neatly sometimes, other times laving Luis’s fingers with his tongue languorously, just to watch the way Luis’s eyes darkened even more, watching him.

 

Without saying anything, Luis pressed Cristiano gently against the wall, a soft warm bulk, Luis’s breath tickling Cristiano’s neck so that the boy laughed, asking “What are you doing, Luis?”

 

Luis took a deep inhale, taking in Cristiano’s scent, and a frisson of desire slid up Cristiano’s spine, making him smile and subtly arch into Luis’s embrace.

 

“I want to eat you out right here.” Luis breathed.

 

Cristiano laughed again, the sound interrupted half way for a breathy inhale as Luis teeth bit down on Cristiano’s neck, the action a little more possessive than what Luis usually indulged in. A slight chill bloomed in Cristiano’s chest.

 

Did Luis know?

 

Did someone tell Luis? Did Luis see an old love bite on Cristiano’s body, that he knew wasn’t there?

 

Could Luis smell Zidane on Cristiano’s body, who had only an hour before had slid his hand down, past Cristiano’s trousers and pink silk panties, to jerk him off in the backseat of the car, Zidane quieting Cristiano with a hand over his mouth, as they waited for Luis to get ready and come out of the apartment so they could all go together to tonight’s party?

 

Cristiano never knew when Zidane would take him. That was the irritating part of their whole sordid affair. He couldn’t, wouldn’t ever tell Luis the story of how him and Zidane became acquainted, that shameful afternoon, how Cristiano came with Zidane’s cock plunging into him to the hilt, his first time irretrievably soiled with the memory of Zidane’s hands on his skin, the overwhelming sensation of his aching ass, the scent of the man who was fucking him despite all Cristiano’s pleading and tears. He couldn’t break up such an old friendship, and potentially destroying all three of their careers with such an accusation.

 

But he could never protect himself against Zidane either. It could be weeks and weeks between their encounters, Zidane never even looking at him, and Cristiano would heave a sigh of relief that whatever they were, was finally over. Though with a small, secret twinge of loss that he would never admit to, thrusting the emotion away as soon as he was aware of it.

 

It happened so that he would least expect it. Zidane finding him and having his way with him in a deserted bathroom. Stopping his mouth first with either kisses or hands, once a handkerchief, the taste of it wetting into his mouth as Zidane went about tying his wrists, then his ankles, to the bedframe. The bed that was supposed to be for only Luis and Cristiano to share, sullied after afternoons, nights, days, where Zidane took advantage of Luis’s dates out of town to humiliate him, tie him down to use his body as he liked.

 

Use his wicked hands, and cock, to tease orgasm after orgasm from Cristiano’s body, while his mouth bit at Cristiano’s skin, simultaneously soothing him and thrumming his nerves to a fever pitch.

 

“Luis?” Cristiano’s voice was slightly wavering.

 

Luis lifted his face from the love bite he was sucking into Cristiano’s skin.

 

“Please?” Luis asked, his handsome face questioning Cristiano. “It is just you look so beautiful tonight, I cannot keep my hands off of you.”

 

Strong hands pressed against Cristiano’s chest, finding their way underneath the suit jacket, clever thumbs teasing his nipples. Cristiano took a quick inhale, an arc of lust like lightening through his body.

 

Luis was never this aggressive usually.

 

And Luis saw Cristiano’s almost instantaneous submission, and smiled.

 

“You’re so gorgeous, Cristiano. Do you know that? Your face tonight is brighter than the stars outside. And I cannot believe you’re mine. I cannot believe everyone else is not cursing my good luck, to see such a pearl by my side, wishing you were theirs.”

 

Cristiano swallowed.

 

Luis pressed against Cristiano, his full weight and bulk against his body, anchoring him.

 

“Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m allowed to touch you,” And with that, Luis’s hand began to skim the surface of his body, his hands hot against the cool of his dress shirt.

 

“To kiss you,” Luis dropped another kiss on Cristiano’s neck, who shuddered and arched into Luis’s mouth, which turned into a sudden bite that made Cristiano yelp, throwing his arms around Luis’s neck for balance.

 

“To have you.” Luis’s hand slid down the small of his back, underneath Cristiano’s trousers. His thick fingers brushed down the cleft of Cristiano’s ass, his thumbnail catching the weft of the silk panties.

 

“To love you.” And with that, Luis’s hand gripped Cristiano’s ass, kneading it, Cristiano muffling his cries, his yeses, against Luis’s neck as Luis’s fingers slipped under the silk to delve, to feel.

 

* * *

 

 

Cristiano was gasping, one arm thrown around the head of the expensive white couch, the other bracing himself against the arm.

 

His thighs strained to keep his balance, his body weak with pleasure as Luis gripped his bare legs, urged him wordlessly to sit more fully on Luis’s face, as his tongue continued to lave him so thoroughly blank of all thought, of all words, except helpless cries that Cristiano tried to muffle against the fabric of the furniture they were on.

 

It was dirty. It was shameless. It was so nearly perfect.

 

Until Cristiano, blinking back tears, looked at the bright doorway in passing, and saw someone looking at them.

 

Luis was too occupied to notice, but Cristiano knew that silhouette anywhere.

 

It was Zidane, watching them fuck like animals on someone elses furniture, in someone elses house, during a party of all their friends and acquaintances. It was Zidane, watching Cristiano getting his ass eaten out like it was sweet as honey, Luis’s mouth wickedly licking him where he was dark and slick, Cristiano getting fucked by Luis’s tongue.

 

Luis made a noise of concern when Cristiano paused too long, turned to stone at the realization that it was Zidane, of course it was motherfucking Zinedine Zidane who was watching him get fucked, always there between him and Luis, with eyes like stone chips. And now Cristiano knew with a blinding clarity that it was far too late to let Luis know what Zidane had done to him, kept doing to him, that Cristiano would never say out loud, but secretly loved, loved being made defenseless, loved being helpless, loved being Zidane’s captive as he was fucked like a whore, over and over again.

 

So Cristiano only settled down more firmly on Luis’s face, the bridge of Luis’s nose pressing into his ass harder, thoroughly demanding all of Luis’s attention.

 

And as Cristiano came closer and closer to his peak, he stared directly at Zidane, who only took a sip of his drink and watched in silence, until Cristiano came, a pulse that wrung him blank of all thought, spilling all over the furniture, left him utterly limp and boneless. And when Luis came back up for air, his own trousers tented for attention, Zidane had disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

This time Cristiano knew what was going to happen.

 

So when he was dropped off into his darkened, cool apartment, Zidane was waiting for him inside already.

 

Zidane shushed Cristiano, pressing him face against the wall, so hard that the very air was pressed out of him, hard enough that it was going to leave bruises. Cristiano was already hardening, as Zidane found when he pulled down Cristiano’s trousers, leaving him exposed to the night air in the ruined silk panties.

 

“Hard for me already, kitten?” Zidane’s voice was so low it sent shivers down Cristiano’s body. “I won’t have to prep you at all before fucking you.” And Zidane pulled the panties down just so, still tight on his inner thighs, just enough to expose Cristiano’s bare ass.

 

And Zidane was true to his word, breaching Cristiano’s slick, aching body, taking him raw in a single powerful thrust.

 

Cristiano afterwards vaguely remembered screaming himself hoarse, and then begging, only this time his cries were _yes_ and _please._

 


	5. Cris/Sergio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sergio tries to cook, and Cristiano barely survives.

“That’s all you want?” Cristiano asked suspiciously.

 

Sergio smiled sunnily back at him, not a single doubt in his eyes. “That’s everything I could ever want, babe. To cook you our anniversary dinner, and then spend the night in.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe the whole week in?”

 

Cristiano rolled his eyes. “Not if you’re feeding me the whole week.”

 

Sergio laughed and put his arm around Cristiano’s shoulder, pulling his reluctant lover in for a sloppy wet kiss, the kind he knew annoyed Cristiano to no end. “How bad could it be?”

 

* * *

 

 

Cristiano stared at the blackened ruin of what was once his beautiful pristine industry grade stove. On the surface was the blackened wreck of his artisanal copper pan, filled with the coal black remains of what he couldn’t even begin to guess at.

 

“Sese,” Cristiano said very quietly, so quietly that Sergio began to back slowly away from him towards the doorway. “What were trying to do?”

 

“…I was heating up some canned soup….”

 

“Oh. Soup. Could have fooled me.” Cristiano bent down to pick up the pan, examining its contents closer, all liquid having long burnt away. “For a second there I thought you were just trying to burn down my house and ruin my kitchen that I _just_ renovated with the interior decorator I flew in from Stockholm, but it seems I was mistaken.”

 

Sergio ran.

 

* * *

 

  

Cristiano was shimmying himself into a tiny pair of panties in his bedroom when he heard a bloodcurdling scream.

 

Without thinking he grabbed the nearest heaviest thing that was closest at hand, and ran downstairs in a blind panic. All he could see was visions of home intruders, Sergio getting knifed, guns, blood.

 

So when he finally arrived at the source of the scream, he was nonplussed for a second to see only Sergio, perfectly fine and alive, backed into a corner.

 

It was only that in the middle of the floor was a pot on fire, and how was it possible for a pot to spew that much fire? The smoke was billowing dark up to the ceiling.

 

Cristiano moved to get water from the sink, only for Sergio to hold out a hand and shout out, “Stop! I did that already, it made it worse!”

 

Shit, it was a grease fire.

 

Cristiano instead in a panic, went into the cabinets to look for something, anything. He saw a large burlap sack of coarse sea salt, and heaved it out. Gripping the bag by the bottom, he threw its contents over the pot.

 

The fire spat and roared, but then under the endless deluge of salt, sputtered into nothing. The smell of smoke and salt instead lingered in the foggy air.

 

There was a moment of utter silence, of complete stillness.

 

And then Cristiano turned to Sergio, his face as immovable as the stars.

 

“Sergio Ramos, you are a dead man walking.” Cristiano intoned, without any emotion.

 

Sergio turned to look at him, really look at him, for the first time. “Are you holding a dildo?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Fuck!” Cristiano moaned, as Sergio spread his legs even further, splaying him out indecently on the table so he could mouth more of Cristiano, his head between Cristiano’s thighs, the delicate lace panties hanging from one of his ankles.

 

“This doesn’t make for tonight, Ramos.” Cristiano hissed, then bit his lip as Sergio made good use of his tongue, stroking him where Sergio knew made Cristiano weak and boneless and pliant. “You owe me a new kitchen set _and_ a new kitchen remodel.”

 

“Oh hush, you’re madly in love with me and you know it.” Sergio murmured, his voice reverberating in the place where Cristiano was most tender and vulnerable. Cristiano couldn’t help arching to that sensation, exposing even more of himself to Sergio’s wicked mouth, that mouth that could talk him into anything, damn him, even if his house burned down over his head. “You came to my rescue in nothing but a pair of panties and our biggest dildo to fight off burglars. That’s true love right there.”

 

“The only thing I love about you is that tongue of yours.” Cristiano groaned in reply. “Now if you’re going to actually eat me out, do it properly and shut up.”

 

“I think your ass wants more than just my tongue.” Cristiano suddenly felt the absence of Sergio, the cold air uncomfortable against his bare ass, and the sound of a zipper being undone and clothes rustling. He got up on his elbows to look at what Sergio was up to, only to feel strong hands underneath him, lifting him, Cristiano grasping at Sergio’s neck in surprise to keep his balance, and his legs naturally folding around his waist.

 

Sergio balanced Cristiano’s weight against the nearest wall, the impact knocking air out of both them, the two of them inhaling the same air for a moment, Cristiano’s heart hammering in his ears, holding onto Sergio with a death grip, as Sergio stared back at him, his expression open and in a little bit in awe and most definitely more than a little in love, watching Cristiano’s face as Sergio inevitably breached him open with his cock, the angle of their bodies making the invasion feel so much more brutal, so much more abrupt.

 

No matter how many times they fucked, be it for hours on end, or with weeks in between, in the privacy of their home or out on a hotel balcony for anyone to see, tender and comforting, or desperate and animalistic, Cristiano could never get used to Sergio, Sergio fucking him against countertops and on the trunks of cars, Sergio fucking him until Cristiano cried, Sergio fucking him over and over again until Cristiano was sore from it and still aching, still begging for him.

 

Because yes, Cristiano did love him.

 

Even if the man was the world's most horrendous cook.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Cristiano stared mournfully at the plate of burnt, blackened toast in front of him.

 

Sergio stood in front of him, eyes pleading and sad.

 

“It’s almost the end of the week, Cristiano.” He said. “You haven’t eaten one thing I’ve made.”

 

“You ruined my pots, my house, and my ass. Isn’t that enough?” Cristiano sniped.

 

Sergio’s eyes got even more sadder, if that was even possible. His eyes held all the grief of the universe, the same way abandoned, unloved puppies did.

 

Reluctantly, very, very reluctantly, Cristiano brought a slow hand to the plate, and lifted the piece of blackly dessicated slice. He took a small bite from the corner.

 

Sergio’s eyes now questioned him.

 

Cristiano took a very, very, slow swallow.

 

“Its….not bad.” Cristiano said.

 

Sergio’s face lit up instantly, and he whooped, picking up Cristiano and spinning him around. “YOU LOVE MY COOKING!” He shouted, pumping his fist.

 

Cristiano smiled weakly as he ran out of the room, ready to make even more food now that his cooking skills had been deemed up to par.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, what happened?” Zidane asked Cristiano quizzically.

 

Cristiano groaned into his phone. “Sergio made me toast. And I ate it.”

 

There was a long pause. “…Why?”

 

“Because he looked so sad and he’s had a difficult week over here trying to cook and I was tired of being scared of his next fuck up when he’s already set something on fire….the point is, I’m tired, I ache all over, and I haven’t stopped throwing up for the last twenty four hours. I don’t think I can come to practice.”

 

“All right. Better take the next few days off too to get better.”

 

“Zizou?”  


“Yes?”

 

“Would it be asking too much to have Sergio do some extra drills? Maybe a lot of extra drills? So that he’s too tired to come over and try to cook for me again?”

 

“Consider it done.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Cristiano,” Sergio’s voice complained on the phone. “Why does Zizou hate me now? He made me run ten extra miles than everybody else and told me to spend an extra hour doing weights after practice. My arms and legs are fucking spaghetti, and I can’t walk. This is terrible. What did I do to deserve this?”

 

Cristiano smiled.


End file.
